


close me in the dark (let me disappear)

by WhenasInSilks



Category: Avengers (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Iron Man (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Cock Warming, D/s, Dark, De-Serumed Steve Rogers, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremis, Gags, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Superior Iron Man, Transhumanism, Unhealthy Relationships, fluffing, hickmanvengers, off-screen Tony/OFCs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23420575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenasInSilks/pseuds/WhenasInSilks
Summary: “I’m so sick,” Tony says, “of everyone wanting things from me.”Steve has lost the serum; Tony has lost his humanity. Steve keeps chasing ghosts. Tony gives him something else instead.[see author’s note for additional content warnings]
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 19
Kudos: 57
Collections: You Gave Me A Stocking 2019





	close me in the dark (let me disappear)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kiyaar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyaar/gifts).



> A stocking fill for the incomparable kiyaar, who wanted to read about cockwarming and SIM/old man Steve fluffing. 
> 
> For anyone not familiar with the canon, this is set at a time in comics where (1) Steve and Tony are on the outs after a truly spectacular betrayal of trust, (2) Steve has lost the serum and become old, and (3) Tony has been ‘inverted’ (Marvel’s word, not mine) and is now amoral in an aggressively bisexual-coded way. Or, in short, they hate each other and everything is broken and also the world’s ending. So, obviously, porn. Story title from Bowie's "Bring Me the Disco King."
> 
>  **Content warnings:** in addition to the dub-con kink and general fucked-upedness (plz see tags), the story references Tony withholding lifechanging medical technology for profit. 
> 
> Thanks to msermesth, meshkol, and the_casual_cheesecake for alpha reading and meshkol for betaing. ❤️

“I’m so sick,” Tony says, “of everyone wanting things from me.”

He winches the dental gag wider, sticks his fingers in Steve’s mouth, rubbing across the tops of Steve’s molars before coming to rest on the flat of his tongue. It’s too far back for Steve to taste him, for the fingers to be anything other than a deliberate violation. Tony grips Steve’s chin, thumb digging into the soft flesh behind his jaw, and turns his head from side to side. Inspecting the merchandise.

“Politicians, shareholders, the public. Yesterday a woman came up to me in the street, can you imagine? Telling me some sob story about her son, about how he’s paralyzed, about how Extremis is the only thing that can fix it, about how she should get for free what everyone else has to pay for.”

Tony’s sneer is a carved-marble masterpiece—all the semblance of flesh with none of its frailties.

“Why do they all think they’re special? What do they think they have that makes them worth my time?”

Steve’s jaw is aching. Moisture gathers in his eyes, smearing across his already-faltering vision. Tony’s face is too blurred for Steve to make out any of the details, but he already knows what he’d find there: a magazine cover perfection, all the lines and creases and imperfections, all the humanity in his features, blended out of existence. But then, these days, Steve bears lines enough for them both. He wonders sometimes if there’s some greater power at work, some incomprehensible force of cosmic justice balancing the scales. If Tony’s ascension could only ever come at the price of Steve’s diminishment.

“And you,” Tony continues, “you’re the worst of all. You want me to heal you, you want me back on the team, you want me to be like I was before, you want me to _stop._ Well. Tonight is about what I want.”

He snorts and releases Steve’s chin—withdraws his hand, wiping his fingers on the taut-stretched skin of Steve’s cheek.

“You on your knees is a good start.”

He rises now, looking down at Steve from his towering height, peerless and immaculate and inhuman. Steve’s body is a network of aches, radiating outwards from two central hubs of pain at his knees and jaw. He hasn’t even been kneeling five minutes, and already it’s almost more than he can bear.

When did he get so weak?

“Here’s my problem,” Tony says. His fingers drum consideringly against his thigh. “I know you come to me for Extremis, even if you tell yourself you don’t. You come here so you can feel whole again. You’d pay almost any price for that, I think.”

He reaches out with one gleaming shoe and presses into Steve’s crotch, dragging the toe down the soft curve of his flaccid cock.

Steve lets out a garbled moan. His arms flex uselessly where Tony has bound them behind his back.

“You won’t be getting it tonight,” Tony informs him. “But, on the other hand…” He withdraws his foot, face pulling into an exaggerated grimace. “No one could reasonably expect me to stick my cock in _that.”_

Steve swallows fruitlessly as drool masses in his mouth. Tries not to let the shame show on his ruin of a face as he waits for whatever fresh indignity Tony has in store.

He finds himself reaching—as he still does sometimes, when Tony manages to nudge up against what remains of his pride—for his anger. He remembers what it felt like the first time he came here, not so long ago—the rage blazing like a fire in his chest, lighting his path, making all things clear. But Steve’s anger was for the man who was his comrade, his friend. For the man who betrayed him. For a man who no longer exists.

This smiling, cold-eyed simulacrum before him?

_—the doors swinging open that first night and behind them, Tony, arms splayed in mocking welcome, armor pouring across his body like quicksilver and nothing on his face that Steve recognized, nothing at all—_

This is just the thing that wears his skin.

(And Steve himself a husk, a derelict, an empty house desperate for a haunting—)

Tony clicks his fingers. “A compromise!”

His eyes go blank, light spreading across them like an infection, a cold, machinic wash of blue. His lips work a few times; his hands sketch incomprehensible sigils. After a minute or two, he makes a pleased sound.

“And, enter!”

His finger taps theatrically at the empty air.

Steve feels the effects almost immediately. Over the weeks and months, he’s grown used to the feeling of Extremis, both like and unlike the serum in the way it takes him over, sinks into the core of his body and makes it something new. The serum hurt, but that was the pain of growth—of development and blossoming and becoming. Extremis never hurts. Instead, it infiltrates him like a virus: overwrites his cells, erases what it finds and leaves itself in its place.

(Sometimes, in his secret, most shameful thoughts, he lets himself hope that Extremis will overrun him completely. Erase everything bruised and impotent and aching—hollow him to the core. He could stand at Tony’s side again, perfect, ascendant, and empty. But it seems soullessness is yet another privilege Tony keeps only for himself.)

Tonight, the effects feel different. Weaker. Steve barely has time to shudder through the unnatural feeling of change before that feeling is gone. He feels haler, a little, but his joints are still aching.

“There we go,” Tony says, satisfied.

He moves behind Steve and crouches down at his side. Puts their faces together and holds out his phone, the camera open and switched to selfie mode. Steve sees Tony—the impossible, inhuman perfection of his features—and an old man. A few decades younger than he usually looks these days—early 60s, maybe—but still with face weathered, lined and unlovely.

“Not going to be winning any beauty contests,” Tony hums, “but at least I don’t feel like throwing up every time I look at you. Say cheese!”

He grins a shark-toothed grin and snaps a photo as saliva spills out of Steve’s mouth and oozes down his chin.

Tony stows the phone again and stands up. Steve lets his head droop a little and watches him pace for a moment, the immaculate crease of his pant legs, the shining leather of his shoes.

Tony stops.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says. “I’m a busy man. My time is valuable, and you waste an awful lot of it, coming here, asking for things you’re never going to get. So now, I’m going to waste some of yours.”

He steps forward and grabs the strap of the gag where it loops around the back of Steve’s head, hauling back so the metal pulls at Steve’s cheek like a horse’s bit.

Steve lets out a garbled noise of pain, tilting his head back, trying to follow the pressure. There is so little resistance left in him these days where Tony is concerned. He wonders if that’s what it means to be entirely—finally—obsolete. The past bowed and broken beneath the relentless demands of the future.

Tony makes an impatient sound and tugs harder.

“I haven’t got all day. _Move.”_

Steve flaps his bound arms for a moment or two, struggling to regain his equilibrium, then slowly, agonizingly shuffles around on his knees. Tony half-guides, half-hauls him across the floor, stopping before the massive chrome and glass desk.

“Under,” Tony says, nudging Steve’s knee with his foot.

Joints screaming in protest, Steve goes.

Tony wheels a chair in front of him and takes a seat. He makes a few sketches in the air and holoscreens appear; Steve can see them shimmering through the glass surface of the desk.

“Now,” Tony says, “I’m going to get back to work. And you—”

He reaches down and unzips his pants, pulling himself out. He isn’t hard. He looks almost vulnerable, cradled there in his hand, except then he’s reaching out and grabbing Steve’s head and pulling him down onto his crotch and it’s not Tony who’s vulnerable, not Tony at all but Steve, forced open, made pliant—Steve with Tony’s soft weight on his tongue, too ineffectual even to arouse him—

“You just stay put and keep me warm, hmm?”

Tony’s voice has already gone distant. Steve knows that if he could lift his head, he’d see Tony’s eyes washed out again in blue.

Steve half-rests his cheek on Tony’s leg—powerful, firm, everything Steve will never be again—and breathes in the musk between his thighs, saturating his senses with Tony’s scent, losing himself in it.

He wishes to god they hadn’t waited this long. Wishes this was something they got to share, before. Before Steve was old and Tony was _this._ He imagines opening his mouth for Tony eagerly, willingly, of his own accord. Imagines Tony’s half-incredulous gasp of pleasure. Drags his tongue up the underside of Tony’s cock.

A sudden, sharp burst of pressure on the left side of his face. Steve gasps wetly and blinks back startled tears.

Tony has boxed his ear.

There’s a dull ringing growing louder in his head; his jaw aches where he bit down instinctively against the gag.

Tony says nothing, doesn’t waste the words. There’s no need, after all. Steve understands perfectly well.

He’s not here to participate. He’s here to be used.

He thinks the idea would have bothered him more, once.

The ringing fades and other pains grow to take its place. The position is hard on his knees, but harder on his neck and back. Steve shifts and fidgets, trying to work his way by increments into a more comfortable position.

Tony clamps a hand on the back of his neck, gives a brief, rough shake, and releases him.

Steve subsides. He should’ve known there would be no avoidance here. Only endurance.

Inch by inch, the pain is becoming impossible to ignore. Steve lets himself sink into it, lets himself become nothing more than what he is: a body, distressed. His neck cricks, his jaw aches, his cheeks are sore and pulled. The wooden floor is impossibly hard against his worn-down, old-man’s knees. Every minute is a battle, and at the end, no reward but the increasingly stringent demands of the next.

Somewhere, there’s a soft, electronic chime.

Steve blinks.

Tony shifts beneath him; Steve feels damp against his cheek as the jostling of Tony’s thigh presses him into the wet spot left by his own drool.

Tony pulls out his phone. Silences the alarm. Puts the phone away.

He redistributes his weight again, a seismic shift in the topography of Steve’s world. Steve startles and tenses as Tony’s hand falls heavily on the back of his head.

Tony’s hips press upwards against Steve’s mouth and Steve momentarily forgets how to breathe. He draws in a strangled gasp as Tony pulls back, but it’s only a moment’s respite before Tony is pushing in again, fucking into Steve’s mouth in little, rocking thrusts.

Steve can feel Tony’s cock swelling, a firmer, fuller weight on his tongue. Soon Tony will be too much for Steve to hold in his mouth without choking. He imagines that, being forced, airless, onto Tony’s cock, struggling helplessly as Tony thrusts and groans and comes down his throat. The image sends a hot spike of lust and shame through his innards, even as his useless, old man’s body remains stubbornly soft. _Neutered,_ Tony’s voice taunts in his head.

He starts at the distant sound of a buzzer, but Tony thrusts onwards, unconcerned. Still, he must have patched himself into the intercom somehow, because now he starts to speak in that loud, expansive, ‘I’m a celebrity’ tone Steve has always hated.

“Ladies! Right on time! Unfortunately, I’m a little behind schedule—” and here he thrusts so hard that Steve gags “—but please do come upstairs and make yourself at home. I’ll be with you shortly.”

 _Ladies,_ Steve thinks, blankly. Tony has invited women here, even knowing that Steve— He can’t be planning on bringing them in here, can he? Decrepit as he is, Steve is still recognizable. God, the scandal—

“Nicolette and Anastasia,” Tony says, as if reading Steve’s mind. “Anastasia’s a model and Nicolette… something in astrophysics, I think. It wasn’t really her degrees I was paying attention to.” Tony leers down at Steve. “Such lovely girls, and so kind of you to get me ready for them. After all, I do have a reputation to uphold.”

So Steve’s just… what? The warm up? The appetizer before the main course? Just tolerable enough for Tony to stick his cock into, but not even worthy of getting him off?

Steve’s face, his brain, his whole body is on fire, and worst of all, his dick finally twitches and starts to fill, just a little. Tony must notice, or maybe he just knows Steve that well, because he thrusts hard and holds, just as he bends down to whisper:

“I know part of you likes this. At least this way, you’re useful. It’s been a long time since you were last useful, hasn’t it?”

Steve splutters and gags as Tony smooths the hair back from his brow.

The worst thing is, he’s not wrong. Steve has spent so much of his life as a vessel. First for its country, all its hopes and aspirations and most dearly treasured fantasies, then for the idol he made of his own rage, and now, finally, at the end of his life—of his _utility—_ for Tony.

And now Tony’s taking even that away.

He’s already drawn back a little, enough for Steve to draw a few, lung-searing breaths.

“I know the girls would thank you, if they knew about you,” he says, and then, as Steve tenses, continuing in horrible, singsong reassurance: “They don’t, though, and I’m not going to tell them. You’re my filthy little secret.”

He pulls out and wipes his hard cock on Steve’s face, first one side, then another, smearing his cheeks with pre-come and Steve’s own spittle.

Fastidiously, Tony tucks himself away. He reaches down and wipes his hand on the breast of Steve’s shirt.

“Now, be good and wait for me, will you? After all, I might need to use you again, if the ladies want a second round.”

Steve blinks and struggles for air which, despite his heaving chest and stretched-open mouth, will no longer seem to come. Tony pats him carelessly on the head, then turns on his heel and leaves the room. The door clicks shut. After a moment, Steve hears his voice rise in greeting, though he can’t make out any of the individual words.

He’s still breathing hard. His face, he knows, is a wreck, sweat and tears running down to meet the mess on his cheeks.

Outside, footsteps grow louder and then quieter again. There’s the sound of a door opening, then a door closing.

Slowly, thighs trembling, Steve sinks to the floor. He flexes his wrists, testing his bonds. They’re not so tight, really. He could probably slip them if he had to, even like this. He might not even need to dislocate his thumb to do it, and even if he does, what’s one momentary pain compared to this prolonged agony, this death of a thousand cuts?

He thinks of Tony’s hand stroking his brow, of the softness of his voice as he bent to murmur poison into Steve’s ear. If you didn’t listen to the words, it could almost pass for tenderness.

Steve shuts his eyes. Lets his arms fall limp. What’s the point in pretending? He’s not going anywhere.

Far away, beyond the closed door, above the rise and fall of voices someone begins to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed/suffered, please consider leaving a comment! They are bright lights in a dark world.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at @whenas-in-silks (rebloggable post for this story [here](https://whenas-in-silks.tumblr.com/post/614219708229615616/fic-close-me-in-the-dark-let-me-disappear), or come join the [616 SteveTony discord](https://discord.gg/F63Nr7K) (18+ only).


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